The Book of Hidden Things

by Francesco Dimitri

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘What Rocco does…’

  ‘Rocco is a businessman.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Elena. You were at the Dance of the Swords.’

  ‘You were there too.’

  ‘Because I had to be!’

  Elena looks at me, her expression darkening. ‘I had to as well. I live in Casalfranco, Tony, and that’s how business works here.’

  ‘Mum and Dad had a shop for decades.’

  ‘And for decades they paid their fees.’

  ‘Why can’t you guys do the same? You pay and get on with your life, without… mixing with that scum?’

  ‘In this world, Tony, there’re people who pay, and people who get paid. What would you rather be?’

  ‘I’d rather not be a crook,’ I say, struggling to keep my voice even.

  ‘That’s rich. You introduced me to Rocco.’

  ‘When I was young and stupid.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Elena says, in a flat tone. ‘And now that you’re all grown up and smart, what did you do the moment you realised Art was in trouble? You came here, you came to me, begging for help.’

  ‘Only because Art…’

  ‘You begged me to put you in touch with my people, and I did that.’

  My people.

  ‘Then, when Mauro got shot,’ she goes on, relentlessly, ‘what did you do, oh my tall and mighty brother? You begged for my help, again.’

  ‘Mauro was dying, Elena!’

  ‘You could have taken him to a hospital, sì? To do the right thing. And told the Carabinieri that a mentally ill girl is at large, with a gun. But no, you chose to come to my house, and I took you in, no questions asked, and you didn’t give a fuck for the girl, as long as you and your mates were safe. How does that work? Your goody-goody rules don’t apply to you?’

  I close my eyes and take a breath. ‘I’m not looking for a fight.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Just try to put yourself in my shoes, sis. It’s all so very difficult to swallow. I had no idea you were so involved.’

  ‘Of course I’m involved with my family business.’

  ‘I am your family.’

  ‘Yes! And here we are, with one of your mates bleeding all over my best linen.’

  ‘Is it Rocco? Does he beat you? Are you afraid of what he could do?’

  She stares at me with her deep black eyes, and takes a hand to my cheek, as she did when she was little. ‘Oh, Tony. You really don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I call the shots, not Rocco.’

  I try and find the words but I find I have finished them all.

  I can see it at last. I can see the full extent of the woman my little sister has become, and what’s worse, I can see how that happened. It could’ve been me, if I’d stayed in Casalfranco. Honour, camaraderie, a sense of belonging to a large, powerful tribe – these are all things I am attracted to as much as she is. Elena and I are very similar people who took different roads.

  In the last few days I haven’t only lost one of my best friends, I’ve lost my sister too. Or I lost her somewhere in the last few years, but it is only now that I realise that she’s slipped far beyond my reach. It’s too painful to bear, but I won’t start crying in front of her, so I concentrate on the weather raging out of the window, and try to remember Art’s voice saying that storms were power, that he was power, that he was the storm. After a while Elena leaves, without a goodbye, and I stay on the wicker chair, alone, looking at the storm outside, until Mauro enters the room.

  MAURO

  1

  I limp out of the bedroom, trying to find my bearings in this unfamiliar house. There was a storm in my dreams, and it made its way to the real world. It darkens the day, occasionally brightening it with flashes of blue light. I stumble into a large room with wicker furniture. A concertina door takes up the entire back wall, giving a perfect view of the storm. Art would enjoy it.

  Facing the door sits Tony. He jumps to his feet. ‘Mauro! How are you?’

  ‘Alive.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Tony pushes another chair closer to me. ‘Sit down.’

  I let myself fall into it, grateful. ‘How long did I sleep?’

  ‘Fifteen hours. A little more.’

  ‘And nobody thought I was dead?’

  ‘Hoped. The word is hoped.’

  I make a faint grin. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll take the blame.’

  ‘Does Anna…’

  ‘She knows. Every detail.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Tony looks embarrassed. ‘I tried to buy time, but…’

  ‘No need to apologise. I know my wife.’

  Tony says, ‘Fabio and I did another thing too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We called Michele. Anna was adamant she wouldn’t accept anything less than that.’

  The game is over, and it was high time. ‘I see her point.’

  ‘Me too, honestly.’

  ‘How long do you think the Corona will take to find Silvana?’

  Tony says, ‘They’ll have her by tonight, tomorrow at most. She’s no Art.’

  Lightning strikes outside. It is one of the last numbers in the show; the raindrops are getting smaller, the thunder more distant. ‘That poor girl. This storm must be terrifying for her.’

  ‘Why do you say so?’

  ‘Because she was haunted, Tony. Afraid of her own shadow. She will be squatting in some godforsaken hole in the countryside, listening to the thunder, imagining God knows what. That poor, poor girl.’

  Tony leaves a moment before saying, ‘You’re a good man.’

  ‘Do you reckon Michele will go easy on her?’

  ‘He’ll do what he thinks he must do to get to Art,’ Tony answers, without looking me in the eye.

  Art. Our friend. The genius, the liar, the dealer, the bastard. ‘He was really screwed up towards the end.’

  ‘Screwed up, yes.’

  ‘What was it in his book that made you want to meet Silvana?’

  Tony looks out of the window, at the dying storm. ‘The pages I read were ramblings on the saints and the Virgin Mary, and I found it odd, very odd, that Art would get in Silvana’s knickers by feeding her some mystic crap. Silvana’s mother practically invented that sort of scam in Casalfranco. Would you expect her, of all people, to be susceptible to it?’

  No, I wouldn’t. ‘What do you think, then?’

  ‘Art was sincere. He meant what he wrote, and he happened to strike a note with the girl. Or maybe…’ Tony makes a frustrated face. ‘It’s Art,’ he says. ‘Impossible to the end.’

  The storm outside is over, except for one last spray of light rain. Give it another hour and the sun will shine; it will be beach weather. ‘I’ve got to call Anna,’ I say.

  ‘Not looking forward to that conversation, are you?’ Tony grins.

  ‘Take pity on me, Tony.’

  2

  Tony drives me home. We try to call Fabio, but his mobile must have run out of battery. I leave him a voicemail to let him know I’m fine. The storm has given way to a cool day. Bright colours and pleasant aromas and a light breeze on the skin – I couldn’t ask for any better for a new beginning.

  ‘How’s the pain?’ Tony says, when he stops the car.

  ‘Bearable.’

  He fishes from a pocket the bag of weed he took from Art’s car. ‘Here. A tried and tested painkiller. All natural, too.’

  ‘I’m obliged.’

  ‘I’m not kidding. If the itchin’ gets bitchin’, roll a joint. You’ve got your doctor’s blessing, so, go for it.’

  The front door opens and Anna appears. Tony waves at her, kicks me out of the car, and leaves.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  Anna frowns, as if unsure what to do. Then she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me tight. I let out a cry – more for t
he surprise of feeling a stab where my wound is than for the actual pain it causes – and she springs back. ‘Sorry,’ she says, embarrassed. She’s been crying.

  ‘I’m here,’ I say. ‘I’m good.’

  Anna guides me inside. Ottavia and Rebecca are in the back garden, which, after the rain, embraces me with a wonderful smell of herbs and ripe fruit. Ottavia sits on the swing hanging from a lemon tree, with a Donald Duck comic book, while Rebecca is cross-legged in the shade of a peach tree, playing with Lego bricks. ‘Daddy!’ Ottavia says.

  ‘Daddy!’ Rebecca says.

  Anna briefed me over the phone; she told the girls I fell down a staircase at Elena’s while I was with my friends, and I had spent the night there to recover. It is still easy to lie to them. They still trust us.

  ‘Don’t hug him,’ Anna advises them, with mock severity. ‘He’s hurt.’

  Rebecca purses her lips in a serious expression. ‘May I hug your hand?’ she asks.

  My heart breaks a little. I reach out with my hand, and hers closes around three of my fingers, the most she can hold, and squeezes them with what must be all her strength. I love this girl. I love her and her sister and their mother. It only seems like yesterday that Ottavia was born, that Rebecca was born, or that I married Anna, and my friends got me a beautiful Stratocaster, which I played for the first and last time on my wedding day. If I turn my head, I can see those moments; they are just around the corner. They are precious. And I was on the brink of trashing them for good.

  I start shaking. Anna notices that and says, ‘Daddy’s tired. I’ll get him to bed.’

  ‘But, Dad…’ Rebecca starts.

  Ottavia stops her. ‘Can I see your Legos?’ she says.

  So young, so wise.

  Anna takes me inside just in time, before I start weeping, tears flowing to my cheeks. I am shaking so hard that the suture itches again.

  I could have died on that beach.

  When I woke up earlier today, and realised I was alive, I realised that, too: I could have died. But only now, safe with the woman I love, I allow that simple, bare fact to surface. I could have been killed by a sick girl – a crime with no culprits. And now she will be dealt with by real villains, folks who don’t think twice before dissolving children in acid just to send a message. All that, because I was bored. Other lawyers, when they have a life crisis, get themselves a bloody sports car. Other lawyers, though, never met Art.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Anna, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…’

  ‘Hush.’

  I crash on the sofa in the living room. ‘I didn’t mean for things to go this far. It just… happened.’

  Anna nods. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I’m not mad, Mauro.’

  ‘You’re not…?’

  ‘We all make mistakes.’

  And I am sure now, I am sure that something happened between her and Fabio, years ago. I would love to tell her that it is ancient history, and I will, when we are both strong enough. ‘What I did is enormously bigger than a mistake. I put my life at stake. No, it’s not even that. I put at stake…’ I swing my index finger between Anna and me, ‘us.’

  ‘You’re unhappy.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m…’ I stop. My wife deserves honesty. ‘Yes, I was unhappy. My life turned out different to what I expected, and I wasn’t coping well with that.’

  ‘I’m not sure I ever understood what you were expecting.’

  ‘Meaning, I suppose.’

  Anna says, in a gently teasing voice, ‘You should’ve done as Art said and become a rock star.’

  ‘Big fat good that did for Fabio.’ I shake my head. ‘No, Anna, I have a good life, different from what I thought, but good, and I should count my blessings. What I did is unforgivable.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive, my love.’

  ‘Thank you for being awesome. Thank you for sticking with me. Thank you for making my mates call Michele. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I just don’t know what came over the three of us.’

  ‘You guys were being loyal to a friend. It didn’t end well, and probably the person himself wasn’t worth it. But, your sticking to him? That was admirable.’

  ‘I…’

  My phone rings. It’s Fabio. Must have heard my voicemail.

  ‘Take it,’ Anna says.

  I smile at her and take the call. ‘Hey, Fabio.’

  ‘Mauro, are you all right?’ Fabio’s voice is strange. Spaced out, as if he has been sampling a generous share of Tony’s painkiller.

  ‘Dandy,’ I say.

  ‘Good. Good. Listen… uh… Christ.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Art,’ he says. ‘He’s back.’

  FABIO

  Art has lit a small fire at the mouth of a cave facing the sea. His lanky figure has the air of a lonesome cowboy. Like a cowboy, he lies on one side, eyes on the fire, or on something that the fire shows him; and he has a satchel bag which could easily be swung onto a saddle. The only detail missing is a blade of grass dangling down from his lips. Not much grass to go around, in this corner of the world. When he sees us, he smiles and waves.

  We call them caves, but they are little more than tiny niches at the bottom of the tallish rocks which line this part of the coast. In a country as flat as this one, every rock is a mountain and every hole is a cave. I reckon that half of the locals have lost their virginity in one of these. I did. They offer no actual protection from prying eyes, but they allow you to tell yourself you are safe.

  It is a mellow night, the finest we have had this June so far, and the sky is heavy with stars and the shape of the Milky Way, rolling overhead like a friendly white serpent.

  ‘Bloody hell, it really is him,’ Tony whispers.

  It is.

  When he knocked at my door, Art was in a hurry. I gave him a rundown of what we’d been doing, and he arranged to meet us all here, promising he would explain his side of things. I was half expecting not to find him – that I had imagined him, or that he would vanish for the third time. But no; he is here.

  ‘Looking good, Tony,’ he says.

  I put the grocery bag I am carrying down on the sand, and Tony does the same. We brought sandwiches, snacks, and beer, as Art had asked.

  Tony plays along with Art’s poker face, and says, ‘We come with supplies.’

  ‘You guys are the best.’

  I ask, ‘Are you sure the fire is a good idea?’

  ‘It’s cosy.’

  ‘I was thinking about the coastguard.’

  ‘The beach is empty,’ Art says, opening the bag with the sandwiches. ‘We hear them, we run. Which one is mine?’

  ‘The brown paper.’ We had the fat cut off the Parma ham in Art’s sandwich; his taste in food is a five-year-old’s.

  ‘I’m not going to ask how much I owe you, sorry,’ he says, grabbing the parcel with an air of triumph. ‘I happen to be skint.’

  ‘It’s on the house.’

  Tony uses the bottom of a lighter to open the bottles of Peroni, while I open a jar of pickled gherkins and a bag of crisps.

  Art tucks into his sandwich, and asks, with a full mouth, ‘Where’s Mauro?’

  ‘Home.’

  Mauro was furious over the phone. When he knew that Art was physically intact – again – and refused to give clear explanations – again – he told me he had to stay with his family, and killed the call.

  ‘He couldn’t spare a night for a mate.’

  Tony says, ‘He spared a lot, actually.’

  ‘That came out wrong, sorry.’ Art bites into his sandwich. ‘I was only hoping there would be all of us, that’s all, considering that we’ve now missed the Pact two years in a row.’

  ‘Not my fault,’ says Tony.

  Art tips his sandwich at him. ‘A tad nervous, are we?’

  ‘No, just curious to hear which brand of bullshit you’re selling this time.’

  ‘A tad nervous,’ Art confirms, washing down his bite with a gulp of beer. ‘But that
’s fair enough. I didn’t play it straight with you guys. You’ll understand that I didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘How deep in trouble are you?’

  ‘Trouble?’ Art is surprised. ‘Not one bit. How on earth did you get that impression?’

  ‘Then why are we meeting here, and not somewhere civilised?’

  Art opens his arms to embrace the beach. ‘I’d rather Michele not know I’m back.’

  ‘Back from where?’ I ask.

  ‘Ah, and that is exactly the question, isn’t it? It is the question now, and it was the question twenty years ago.’ Art looks at the fire, his face adjusting to a serious expression. In my mind, he remained the scrawny kid I met when I was eleven, at the new, scary school. But I can see he is long past being a kid; his face is beginning to be lined, his hair streaked with a touch of white. ‘When I told you that I didn’t know what happened during the seven days I went missing…’

  ‘You were lying.’

  Art makes a disappointed face. ‘I was not. I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.’

  ‘Are we talking of amnesia here?’

  ‘I remembered every detail, but I needed time to process, and understand. What good do facts do by themselves? No good! Okay, without further ado, here we go, the truth: when I left you guys with the telescope and went into the olive grove – I was kidnapped.’

  ‘Don Alfredo,’ I say.

  Art whips his head to look at me, with a puzzled expression. ‘Don…’ he starts chuckling. ‘Don Alfredo! No, Fabio, it wasn’t Don Alfredo. The person who took me… she wasn’t from Casalfranco.’ He pauses. ‘She wasn’t human.’

  There is a moment of complete silence.

  Tony asks, ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think I mean? She was – she is – not human. She doesn’t have a name you could understand. She’s… she’s… I won’t claim I can tell you what she is, because I still can’t. I can say what she isn’t, though.’

  ‘Which is human,’ Tony says, his voice steady.

  Art points an index finger at him, with the thumb cocked, in a pistol gesture, as if to say, Dead on target. ‘She was a Hidden Thing.’

  We have a trick of the trade, us photographers, which some jokingly call our special sense. It is a particular gaze, a way of looking at things: you strip your subject of everything that is you and not them (your preconceived notions of what good lighting is, your instinctive reactions to certain colours), so that you will see their nature, their intimate truth, emerge. You need the truth. You can choose to portray it as it is, or to change it beyond recognition, but you have to know what that truth is. I use my special sense on Art. I clean my mind from everything I know about him (decades of friendship, gone), everything I believe about the existence of non-human beings (common sense, gone), everything my mind tries to tell me, and in those few, precious moments of silence, I look at Art and his truth.